


(quiet like a fight) fingers laced together

by decadent



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, Hybrid Louis, M/M, Past Abuse, and louis just needs love, harry is a lovebug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decadent/pseuds/decadent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a thin hope, frail and as thin as the silver strands of a spider web, desperate in the way Louis keeps clinging onto it even when he’s already expecting and preparing for the worst. Maybe one day, he’ll have a home, a place where he can feel safe and sound, tucked away safely from the world that has the tendency to treat him horribly and then even worse, that maybe there will be someone in his life who cares for him, even if in the smallest of ways, and does not just use him for whatever they tend to need at the moment.</p><p>Or, the one where Harry is gifted a hybrid and it's a whole new world for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(quiet like a fight) fingers laced together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hilarry13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilarry13/gifts).



> this is the story that has killed me over and over again, the one that i've been working on for no less than a few decades, apparently, the story that i both hate and love so much at the same time and the one that will hopefully be exactly what one lovely lady wished for. there was a bit i didn't know how to tackle, but i hope the length and depth of everything else made up for it.  
>    
>  the most bone-crushing, most loving hug goes to [d](http://babyoflouis.tumblr.com), who kept me writing all the times i wanted to give up (which was about ten times a day and then some) and [k](http://shrimplouis.tumblr.com), who helped me map up and brainstorm the fuck out of everything right at the very beginning. without neither, this story wouldn't have happened. i can't thank you enough, my best bugs.  
>    
>  all that i own are my own mistakes and a hopeless love for louis with a fluffy tail. warning for excessive use of italics and sentences the length of a paragraph, also some super heavy self-resentment..  
>    
>  story title by lorde - yellow flicker beat.  
>    
>  i [tumble](http://letthemkissyou.tumblr.com). come say hello. 

The air is cold and bitter outside, wind wild and howling, crashing fiercely against the fragile glass of the windowpanes. The icy snowflakes are swirling in the air like tiny little tornadoes, flying back and forth in the brisk night as diamond dust in the dark sky.

It’s Christmas Eve, but it’s not warm and spicy sweet the way Christmas was when Harry was younger, much younger. The house doesn’t smell of cinnamon, cranberries, and the red and white striped candy canes, sugar sweet and peppermint, are no longer spread throughout the house for little Gemma and Harry to find. There are no pieces of shiny tinsel on the floor, trickled down from the large fir in the living room, and Anne has long stopped burning the candles that smell like frankincense and myrrh.

Now, it’s clean and pristine and _official_ , it feels as formal as the company dinners they hold in their vast house, lavishly decorated with fine vintage and art pieces, chosen only by the best and from the best, dining room professional and unfriendly to the farthest extent. The pork they’re eating is delicious and juicy, the gravy rich and indulgent, and the mash is fluffed to perfection – it’s nothing like the semi-charred dishes Anne used to cook for hours, putting all her love and effort into one slightly ruined pot roast that still ended up tasting better than anything else she cooked in the previous three hundred fifty something days of the year.

It was home, back then.

They’re still a family, they are, but it’s not much the same anymore. It’s not as warm and nice, it’s not sugar and spice, but it’s loving, long embraces that have turned into brief hugs, laced with some affection, but not all of it. The hour-long phone calls that have become text messages once in a while.

It’s the inevitability of children growing up, little birds spreading their wings and flying out of their nest and everyone hanging onto the thin memory of the family they used to have, gossamer-like threads, frail and fragile, still bind them. And now, it is maybe a bit of the unnecessary notion of trying to bargain back the attention and affection from their own children.

They’ll always be a family, they will, but it’s just not exactly the same.

As their plates are slowly but surely being emptied, the conversation is light and mellow. Gemma tells their family about the gentleman she’s been seeing, a young economy-slash-marketing guru of sorts that has his whole name plastered on every mental billboard in their area of expertise. He’s supposedly very charming, incredibly handsome, graduated on top of his class from Oxford, financially already stable enough to provide himself for the rest of his life and to top it all off, his great-great grandfather had been the Duke of Somethingshire, so royal blood it is.

“And you, Harry? Still living that lonely, work life of yours?” Anne sets her wine glass down with a pleasant smile. It clinks painfully against the side of her plate, glass crashing into porcelain, but no one even blinks.

“Yes, mum,” Harry takes another sip of the wine and sets his cutlery on his empty plate, “still sad and lonely with my awful job of helping people every day.”

Robin and Anne both snort, because sometimes, underneath the façade of the posh, high class family, sometimes the real them shines throughout the cracks in the glass and making silly jokes, laughing on inappropriate instances feels like the old times, when their family business happened on some days of the week, not all days of the week, and every aspect of their life was not taken over by paperwork, the scent of printer soot and a whole handbook of what’s accepted and what is not.

“Well, pardon my eagerness and haste, but we have been planning this for absolute ages and we’ve got a present for you we’re sure you’d love and I’d be devastated to keep waiting for any longer,” says Anne, “besides, I have a feeling we’re all done here already and it is impolite to leave a seat empty”.

Anne effortlessly waves towards a seat set on the farthest end of the table, the one that has been unoccupied the whole night, but Harry hadn’t dared to ask about. Her cerulean eyes are twinkling with child-like excitement Harry has long seen her present, and he’s the slightest bit conflicted, a heavy, solid cold weight settling in his tummy. Knowing his parents and their expensive spending habits, their presentscould range from a brand spanking new Land Rover, alloy wheels and all the extravagant add-ons, to a little pack of tiny pygmy hedgehogs, because they “reminded me of your hair, Harry”.

When money’s not a problem, the expenses could get a tad bit peculiar. Also, Anne’s an odd little nugget, but Harry loves him with his whole heart nonetheless.

“Bring him in, Robin,” exclaims her mother and that’s the first incentive to spark Harry’s confusion. Bring _whom_ in? Another one of their incredibly important business associates that Harry just _has_ to meet, especially during Christmas? A long lost brother he’s yet to find out about? And what does it have to do with his present?

What happens next, as Robin exits the dining hall for a moment and comes back with someone else in tow, is something Harry would have never, ever, in a million years imagined happening.

It’s a boy, definitely _not_ neither a business associate, nor a brother, but a timid young man with the stance of shyness and despondence, the tips of his toes turned slightly inwards and fingers clasped behind his back, worried lip bitten back beneath his sharp canines and fluttery lashes cast downwards.

A moment later, Harry realizes why there is a tiny, gorgeous stranger in the middle of their dining room, brought in right during their meal while Anne and Gemma are still chasing the little green peas on their porcelain plates, and it’s the fluffy tail, which swishes modestly behind him, the furry tip barely brushing against the cold hardwood floor, that gives him away.

Harry’s parents got him a _hybrid_ for Christmas. Trying to comprehend just that concept is difficult enough, because _what the hell_ , because apparently Harry’s parents have deemed him unsociable enough to have _bought him a companion_ , because this is beyond anything Harry ever considered his parents being capable of. Bought him. A hybrid.

It gets worse, even.

It’s that moment he feels the cruellest, when the boy looks up and Harry has a pair of sea blue eyes looking up at him, his gaze fixed and piercing. It gets way worse, close enough to utter _shite,_ because Harry _knows_ those eyes and he _knows_ the boy that’s standing in front of him.

 

 

_The little boy standing on the ledge of the sandbox has a group of five boys surrounding him and from the looks of it, they are definitely not his mates. With sharp words set to kill and mean, little fingers poking at him, Harry can see from his slumped, dejected posture that the tiniest boy they’re prodding at is not well, not at all. He’s trying to cover himself, hiding his face in his hands as he’s pushed and pulled, back and forth, played like a yo-yo._

_Little Harry hikes his backpack up his shoulders and brushes off the tiny drop of snot dripping from his nose with the back of his mitten, quickening his steps towards the playground. As he’s almost at the sandbox, he yells in the most menacing voice someone under the age of ten can produce “HEY, STOP THAT,” to the bullies and a moment later, he sees the group of tiny mean nitwits push, and then run away from the boy, laughing at something out loud and fleeing like they just did something they most definitely should not have._

_“Hey,” says Harry as he hastily makes his way towards the little lad. The petite one’s got teardrops stuck to his long lashes, clumping at the tips, and his toffee hair is all mussed up, tiny triangle-shaped ears pressed flat against his head as icy snowflakes make a home on his head, falling hard and fast, “are you alright?”_

_The boy looks up and Harry, even if he’s just seven years old and still learning about the real life, the society he lives in, the people he shares his hometown and world with, he’s quite sure that the first heartbreak happens right there, right then as he’s standing with the noses of his winter boots in cold sand, holding out his mitten-covered hand for the boy who has a thousand different shades of sadness painted on his face and has fallen back on his bum._

_“’m name’s Harry,” says Harry as the kid scrambles up. He’s shivering, head and hands bare, little fingertips holding a bluish tinge as he dusts the snow and sand off his butt and tail, smoothing over the matted fur. “You’re a kitten,” Harry states and a pair of eyes snap up to look at him. They’re blue, the nicest shade that reminds Harry of the sapphire earrings his mother wears and so, so sharp, so, so miserable and glazed over with glistening tears.  The boy nods timidly._

_“They said I’m worthless,” he whispers quietly and softly, his voice a sickly whimper in the cold December air, warm breath swirling into the cold air, “and that no one will ever like me… and they pulled on my tail and ears, made it hurt. Ran away with my hat and gloves. ‘s cold.”_

_Harry sighs, his tiny heart constricting tightly inside his chest. He knows so little, not much at all about kitten boys, hybrids, how they’re made or raised or most importantly, why would anyone ever want to hurt them. He slides his bobble hat off his head and pulls on the hood of his jacket, the furry edge of the top almost covering his eyes. With a step forward, Harry gently places his hat on top of the hybrid’s head, touch careful enough not to hurt his ears and gentle enough to make him not wither away from his touch as he’s lightly rolling up the edge of the hat._

_“What’s your name, baby kitten?”_

_“Louis,” he whispers and pulls the beanie further down his head, trying to stop the shivers wrecking his body, “you didn’t have to do this, you’ll get cold yourself. Like they said, I don’t deserve anything.”_

_“Let’s go, Louis,” says Harry fiercely and resolutely, his green eyes large and fond, young face scrunched up in determination, “I live around the corner, the big big white house, my sister is home and she will make you hot chocolate, with those tiny little marshmallow bits, and when I can find you a pair of my old mittens, I’ll walk you home, because I don’t want the nasty bullies pulling on your tail anymore, that’s mean. Okay?”_

_Louis nods and when he looks up at Harry, the tears finally roll down his soft cheeks._

 

Harry snaps the velvety napkin off his lap and throws it back on the table. The corner of the bright white cotton lands onto his plate, staining it with a murky brown colour from the gravy on the porcelain.

His parents got him a _hybrid_ for Christmas.

Furthermore, they got him the very same hybrid for Christmas, the one who has never left Harry’s mind since that one cold winter night when they were still little, the one he ended up giving his softest pair of gloves to, and the one who he walked home an hour later, bellies full of warm chocolate and his tail hanging softly between his legs, embodying his apprehension and insecurity.

The one who he’s reminded of each single time he sees a hybrid, the one he’s been thinking about for a decade and some more, whether those gloomy blue eyes have been forced to endure more hurt, sorrow and degradation. Whether he’s well and good. Whether he’s at least just _fine._

“I don’t think I can stay any longer, mother,” speaks Harry slowly, his voice laced with malice and distaste, “as apparently I now have to assist a _hybrid_ to get accustomed with his new home.”

It’s a gesture, Harry knows it is.

He knows they mean well and it’s all for _curing the loneliness_ and _Harry, dear, you’re working far too much and having far too little human contact_ (the fuck, he is) and _we just wanted to get you someone_ and _he’s lovely, he’ll help you around the house_ , but it all comes down to the fact that Harry does not believe in the whole concept of domesticating hybrids, he does not regard them as a “lower life form” just because they have a pair of tiny triangle ears, fluffed up and hidden beneath their hair, and a soft, furry tail to match them.

(Also, at the age of twenty-two, he’s not quite sure how much he appreciates his parents meddling in his personal life or life in general.)

Harry does not think of anyone less just because their gene pool differs a bit from his own and it pains him, even if just the slightest bit, that his parents would assume he’d be alright, that he’d obey to their wishes, that he’d agree to owning a hybrid in the classic sense – have them clean the house, prepare the food, fuck them well with a hand hard against their arse and their tail in hand like a reign and later on, send them away to their too cold room with a too tiny bed without a single good word regarding their existence.

Harry doesn’t consider hybrids toy pets for his own pleasure and comfort, he doesn’t, because he believes in their independence, free will and right to their own lives. That is not who he is, neither who he’s going to be – it’s a promise he’s always kept, even if just to himself, from the same frosty night he walked the little kitten called Louis home, hugged him the tightest he could muster, squeezing his small, lithe body with his own even smaller hands and vowed to himself, right there, right then, that he’s never going to regard a hybrid the way their whole society expects everyone to.

Louis is frazzled, confused with the situation unravelling in front of him.

He’s standing in the Styles’ living room, next to a man twice the size as him, the man who looks expensive and smells expensive, his stance reeking of power and firmness. All eyes are on him and he’s not quite sure how to react or what to feel. There’s a small backpack slung over his shoulder and a new ID card in the front pocket that deems _Harry E. Styles_ as his new owner and the aforementioned boy is standing a few metres away from him, dark curly hair wild on top of his hair, arms flailing around wildly and nothing but pure irritation on his face, green eyes glazed over with fury.

So, he’s again not wanted.

Alas, that no longer is a surprise for Louis and as raw, hurtful and heart breaking as it sounds, he’s used to being dejected. It’s not anything new.

Emerald eyes appear in front of him and he’s startled for a moment as Harry brushes a tuft of hair away from his face, the stubborn little strand that keeps falling in front of his eyes. He tries not to flinch, because after all, _that’s his new owner_ and he’s allowed to touch him whichever way he wants, whichever way he needs, whichever way he can conjure up in the dirtiest of dreams, whichever way he even decides _not_ to – Louis is all his.

“I’ll have the kitchen pack up some dinner for you, in case you’re hungry,” his voice is a slow, deep drawl and Louis wants to cry, sort of, because the whole situation is crashing up all over his head, drawing him in deep.

He’s used to what his life has to offer him as a hybrid, he is, the humiliation and disapproval, but there is a vast difference between being humiliated in a dingy, dark alleyway with one fist in his face and the other down his trousers, having the threat of handing him over to the authorities if he didn’t _“shut up and start sucking”_ whispered into his ear, dirty and menacing, and standing in a bright, well-lit dining room with gorgeous, well-respected faces looking down on him and being humiliated by something that’s supposed to be the complete opposite of it.

“Alright,” Louis whispers into the silence, shuffling the scuffed, worn-out toes of his maroon shoes against the plush carpet. His tail is wrapped around the inside his left leg, pressing against his thigh, despondent and timid, the brown tufts in the top of his ears twitching nervously back and forth, from one side to the other, burrowed right between the mess of his hair.

The family exchanges their goodbyes and the shift in the air is noticeable – it’s colder, more distant, tiny bits of silence filled with mindless small talk and useless pleasantries. Anne is disappointed and a bit defeated, her shoulders slouched and nose not held half as high as before, even Robin’s posture speaks of exasperation and Gemma’s completely indifferent, still stabbing the little leftover pieces of vegetables with the metal of the fork, pointedly ignoring the whole discomfort of the situation.

They’ll talk later, Harry knows, because he knows his sister and he’s convinced if their parents had consulted her beforehand, had asked her if she thought he needed company, if he’d like a cat or a dog or a pet hamster, or if he’d _actually_ prefer a hybrid. If he had the life suited to owning a hybrid.  If he had it in him to be responsible for someone else’s wellbeing, someone’s life. If they thought he’d agree to the sort of slavery that owning hybrids actually is, if they thought Harry would regard it as something other than pure servitude, the concept of having a hybrid deemed to his name.

The ride home isn’t any friendlier, easier – the tension is thick in the air, a sharp knife could cut through it with ease. Louis doesn’t let his eyes stray from the landscape that’s wheezing by, adherent on all the dark trees with little snowy hats and the snowflakes the blizzard is twiddling around. Outside, it’s cold as ice, dark and grave, and Louis thinks that in a sadistically pleasant way, it matches the way he’s feeling right then, right there. There’s a storm burning up inside of him, twisting up his insides and messing around in his head, it hurts and confuses him more than it’s supposed to, the ugly demons inside of him raising their heads and offering him nothing else besides the malice he’s already used to.

After all, if one’s been told their whole life they aren’t worth a thing, a single penny, that every tiniest amount paid for them is already too much, that they’re a bad excuse of a human and even worse as a cat, that even the Devil himself wouldn’t have something like them stand at his side, that _they’re the part of the litter that should have been drowned at birth,_ there is a point where it all becomes regarded as the truth.

It’s all the same, Louis thinks to himself, it’s all the same and Harry isn’t going to be any different, regardless of who made the purchase, signed the contracts and sealed the deals, he’s Harry’s and for the time being, there will be nothing to change that.

The same boy will own him, now the same _man_ , who once walked him home hand in hand and told Louis of how he’d treat the vile people who regarded hybrids as a lower life form, how he’d never subject anyone to being _owned_ in the literal sense, how he’d never pull a tail or whack an ear, how he’d never laugh at the feline features and characteristics some of the hybrids seem to possess, because how on Earth would someone be responsible for their own existence? And who would be he, a simple boy with eyes full of mirth and a heart full of gold, to treat them differently?

All in all, even that doesn’t matter, because judging from the way Harry’s gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white and fingertips a light blue, his bottom lip bitten between his teeth so hard Louis is sure he’s smelling the faint metallic scent of blood in the warm car and his brows so furrowed there’s bound to be a permanent scowl etched on his face, Louis realizes that this is no different from any other time in his life. Starting from when he was still struggling to get by on the streets, always tucking his tail away into the loose trackies he’d wear and ears never not hidden by a knit beanie or a hood over his eyes, hiding away from anyone who could get him, claim him as their own and sell him forward to the highest bidder, Louis wasn’t ever wanted the way he wanted to be, the way he _needed_ to be.

It’s a thin hope, frail and as thin as the silver strands of a spider web, desperate in the way Louis keeps clinging onto it even when he’s already expecting and preparing for the worst. Maybe one day, he’ll have a _home,_ a place where he can feel safe and sound, tucked away safely from the world that has the tendency to treat him horribly and then even worse, that maybe there will be someone in his life who cares for him, even if in the smallest of ways, and does not just use him for whatever they tend to need at the moment.

Maybe one day he’ll have someone who will kiss him with their warm hands cupping his cold cheeks, someone who will give him Eskimo kisses right before bed, tuck him in and whisper him the loveliest of things before he falls asleep, someone who will wake him up every day with the perfect cup of milk tea and someone who will make him realize that the world isn’t as awful as it’s made itself out to be.

Maybe, just maybe.

 

 

The first weeks are a painful struggle for the both of them, given for the fact that the only words they’ve spoken to each other are forgotten in the cold night of 24th December. It’s like radio silence, white and fuzzy quiet that neither of them has the courage to break, it’s tiptoeing around each other with shaking hands and a whole lot of uncertainty from both sides that’s like a time bomb ticking, waiting to blow up and bring chaos into the stillness that rules in the flat.

Harry’s afraid to talk, because he’s got about zero ideas regarding what he’d say, (“ _Hey, I really don’t mind you being part cat, but the thing is my parents bought you for me because they think I’m lonely and helplessly hopeless and everyone wants me to treat you like an animal and my own personal servant and I sort of don’t want to do that and at the same time, I literally own you and have been thinking about you for over a decade. What do you want for dinner?”_ ) and Louis doesn’t want to talk, because if there’s one thing he’s learned from the harsh lessons his life has offered him, it’s that hybrids don’t speak unless they’re spoken to. The phantom pain of countless flicks against his nose and painful tugs on his ears are the ever-present reminders of that.

Louis’ settled into his room, the unused, untouched and before that, almost unfurnished guest room right across Harry’s bedroom that’s since been filled with bits and pieces of new furniture, the semi-decent mattress and thin pillows replaced with the softest, fluffiest down cushions, duvet covers and the softest bed Louis has ever rested his body on.

All his bed sheets are a high thread count satin cotton that miraculously change themselves every other Saturday, the glossy cupboard, right there beneath the window that casts dim light into the room through the thick curtains Louis almost never wants to keep open, is filled with new clothes in prim condition. Furthermore, everything seems to be from the stupidly expensive hybrid store that accommodates their cuts and styles of their shirts, sweaters, jeans and tracksuit bottoms to the fact that there’s a tail somewhere and that tail needs to feel comfortable as well.

Everything he’s surrounded with in Harry’s flat is nothing short of perfect, the very best, everything is amazing and he’s not happy.

Mostly, he’s not content because he has no clue, not even the slightest idea of his purpose. Louis is not degraded, he’s not battered up and beaten down with words, fists, inanimate various objects, which is a pleasant experience for a change, but he feels inadequate, useless and very much lost in the dark. So, he settles for the role of a Dobby-like quiet house pet and makes sure that every night, when Harry comes home from work, there’s at least _something_ prepared for dinner, even if his cooking skills range from roast herb potatoes to cheese toasties and sometimes something with eggs and bacon (but never an omelette, because he’s still not sure about the whole _whisking_ part), never anything big, but it’s a gesture.

It’s a gesture he’s willing to put some effort into, because he doesn’t know _who_ or _what_ he’s supposed to be for Harry, considering it’s fairly obvious in his mind that Harry isn’t remotely interested in his existence. He’ll also hoover the floors, dust off the cupboards, wash the mirrors from grubby fingerprints and wipe off the bits of toothpaste stuck to the bottom of the porcelain basin of the bathroom, just like the little diligent pet he is. The nice little hybrid.

So, for some time, that’s how it all goes. Like two parallel lines, equidistant, always right there next to each other, coexisting, but never meeting. Louis isn’t sure if it’s better or worse than what he anticipated, but he feels like a blank, empty space.

 

 

The inevitable, the instant that they’ve both been dreading, the moment where everything that’s been bubbling beneath breaks into the surface and the tension makes them both crack like a tree branch in a strong wind, ruthlessly and unforgivingly, happens after a whole month of silent cohabitation.

Harry still doesn’t know what to say and Louis still doesn’t know what or who he’s supposed to be and he’s tired, so exhausted from the tiptoeing around and he _knows_ he wasn’t Harry’s first choice, he wasn’t Harry’s _any_ choice, but he’s here and he needs Harry to give him something besides more new clothes and books, everything from Bukowski to Rowling, and a brand new laptop, more expensive than anything he has ever owned before, and _things,_ random bits and gadgets to keep him occupied, to keep on putting off the dreaded conversation they’re bound to have.

So, one night, Harry comes home from work, a little bit tired and a little bit grumpy, generally exhausted from work and the people and the problems and the paperwork and the laws and quite honestly, _everything_. He’s as hungry as a tiny bear and Louis, instead of being hidden in the dark comfort of his room, bundled up between his warm blankets with books or computer or the TV remote or all of those three together, the way he usually is, right now he’s not.

In the kitchen, right there on the shiny granite countertop where Harry’s been finding his lovely little dishes from, every single evening he’s back from the office, is Louis instead.

And if that isn’t something surprising, unexpected.

He’s tiny, of course he is, with soft curves and sharp edges and piercing blue eyes staring at Harry intently, his jaw locked tight in place, fingertips white from the way he’s clutching the stone plate underneath his palms. There’s fierce determination written all over his face, ears aggressively flattened back against his head and tail swishing behind him, angrily fluffed up, and a bowl of steaming spaghetti, covered in tomato sauce and what seems like a whole pack of grated parmesan, right next to where he’s sitting on the on the cold tile.

The thing is, Louis is half naked. He’s shirtless, no clothing covering his thin body, skin still tinted a faint golden glow from the summer sun. He looks frail, fragile bones and sharp ends of his ribs sticking out from underneath the skin, tummy a bit too sunken in for Harry’s liking. Louis doesn’t look particularly unhealthy, neither sickly nor ultimately malnourished, but he’s a bit too delicate. Faint, like he’d crumble right beneath Harry’s fingertips if he were to hold on a bit too hard. Like he’d have blue and purple marks scattered all over his skin if Harry pressed his fingers into his skin, like anything that touched him would essentially hurt him.

“Are you going to fuck me anytime soon, then? ” Louis asks, blunt and unequivocal.

Harry snaps up to look at him, heart pounding in his chest like a hummingbird’s and the sensation of having a bucketful of freezing ice water dropped over his head shivering its way down his body, settling in the pit of his belly. It takes him a moment to gather himself, to scuffle over to the refrigerator, all his moves too slow and too deliberate for the tension’s that’s already kicked in.

“’m not going to fuck you, Louis,” Harry replies, closing the fridge door with a bottle of fizzy water in his hand, the cold plastic a nice, pleasant contrast against the clamminess of his palms.

“Why wouldn’t you, though? Isn’t that’s why I’m here? To be your ultimate dream pet? People do end up fucking their hybrids, you know. Sex pets, that’s the main purpose they breed us for.”

“You’re not my pet,” Harry drawls, brows furrowed as he’s catching onto the fiery gleam in Louis’ eyes. He looks mad, livid, even, and nothing short of unstoppable, which is something Harry sort of seems to appreciate – he likes seeing Louis express his feelings, enunciating his emotions. He likes seeing Louis tear himself open and throw bits of himself in front of Harry to handle, because that’s how Harry realizes that it’s not all hopeless yet and Louis isn’t just another lost cause, void and emotionless.

With the way Louis chuckles darkly, his angry blue eyes matching the scowl-like excuse of a smile painted on his face, Harry knows that there are at least some emotions that he can evoke out of him, pull forward and lay down on the table like a pack of playing cards, all the Kings and Queens and Aces up for grabs and ready for playing. Just based on that, Harry knows that there is some humanity, some faith still left in Louis, that he’s willing to fight, even the tiniest bit, and not succumb to the animalistic expectations that he’s been forced into fulfilling from the day he was born.

“Oh,” Louis cackles, “so I’m not even good at that anymore? Is that it?”

Harry takes a step towards Louis, inching closer, much closer and cautiously overstepping every single personal border and line and wall Louis has ever built around himself. He lets himself have a good look at Louis: everything from the way his ears are still nervously twitching in his messy hair, how his long eyelashes cast little shadows on the tops of his cheeks during those moments when he looks down and focuses on the tiling of the floor rather than Harry standing in front of him, quietly and patiently, and how his despondent stance, slumped shoulders and prickly goosebumps on bare skin give away that he’s not even half as in control as he thinks he is, that it’s still Harry calling the shots and dealing the cards.

Also, he’s gorgeous.

Louis is so, so damn stunning with the way he’s sitting there, raw and unabashed, letting Harry see the parts of him that he’d hidden away a long time ago, the exact same moment when Louis realized that his opinion does not matter, that _he_ does not matter, but he’s there, he’s angry and he’s feeling something, he’s letting himself actually feel for the first time in a very, very long while, he’s _expressing_ something and that’s a fucking big deal.

“The only person,” Harry says, slow and breathy, “who is going to treat you like an animal in this house, is you. If you want to clean, clean. If you want to cook, cook or if you want to stay in your bed the whole day, you’re entitled to that.  As long as you’re here with me, you’re allowed to do everything you want and I’ll provide you the means, so please, Louis, stop calling yourself my pet. I’m not considering you as one and I’m not going to.”

With that, Harry snatches the bowl of pasta, a fork and the little piece of dried ciabatta that’s resting on a lonely plate on the countertop, herbs and sea salt sprinkled over it, courtesy of Louis, stuffs the cold bottle of mineral water under his arm and takes off towards his room. He’ll eat, sleep on it, let Louis sleep on it and see what tomorrow brings. After all, it can’t get any worse from there.

Back in the kitchen, Louis wipes a stray tear from his cheek that’s threatening to drop onto the hands resting on his own lap. All’s good, all’s well.

 

 

It gets easier after the fight, the dreaded blowout, once the tension has settled down and Louis finally admits to himself that even though his “reunion” with Harry wasn’t neither expected nor awaited, it may actually have been the best thing happened to him in years, speaking in hindsight.

He’s got a roof over his head, a very nice one at that, his own bedroom, which is a grand and much appreciated change from the tiny shoebox-like guest rooms with shitty mattresses on the cold wooden floors he’s been forced into for years – if he’s even been given the courtesy of his own living space, that is.

So, Louis’ living in a nice apartment that’s always warm and smells of fresh linen, burnt brown sugar and something spicy that he’s mostly grown to associate with Harry, and an owner who doesn’t have the habit of beating him up on every day that ends with a “y” to release their own stress. He’s not a compulsory part of insane, slightly perverted sex games that include him as the coy submissive and leave parts of his body aching for days and if he were to use that as his only argument towards the pro-list of living with Harry, that’s already doing much better than most of the hybrids he’s ever known.

The most important, the breaking point for Louis to let go of whatever anger he’s clinging onto, clawing at desperately with his fingertips, with all of his might and resentment his small body can muster, is when he finally realizes that all this time, all those long weeks that he’d been thinking Harry was disregarding him, ignoring him and making him feel redundant, unnoticed and unnecessary, all this time Harry has actually been giving Louis the chance, the space and the means to redefine himself from the animal he’d been treated as for his whole life to a person with their own free will.

All this time when he’s been trying to be the virtuous pet, cooking and cleaning and scrubbing and tinkering about with everything in the house, trying to keep everything clean, pristine and perfect, trying to make himself worthy of the living space, the food, the little presents Harry keeps on leaving on his unmade bed, things he thought he’d like, Louis has been more than assured that he’d have to _earn_ everything, that there needs to be something counteractive for each piece of luxury and pleasure and _normal life_ he’s been granted with. 

That’s when Louis realizes he will have to start warming up to Harry, he will have to start tearing down the walls he’s built around himself so high that even Louis himself has no idea what’s behind them, that it may be the right time to start opening up to the person who is solely responsible for giving him, his _life_ , a new chance to make something out of himself and rid himself of the negativity, self-hatred and distaste he’d grown accustomed to a very long time ago.

Slowly and surely, with the tiniest of baby steps, is how Louis starts offering Harry pieces of himself, how he’s trying to act like less of a servant and more as a friend.

It’s difficult, unusual and Louis is so very unaccustomed to it, but he’s getting there. He’s getting there somehow, even though it pains him and hurts him and makes him cry himself to sleep most nights, because he simply doesn’t know how to _not_ hate himself and how to let himself appreciate the littlest of things, from a soft pillow and a decent cup of tea to the fact that he’s living a damn good life and how Harry, his goddamn _owner_ , actually seems to be an ethereal being with the most golden of hearts.

In the mornings before Harry rushes off to work, Louis sometimes wakes up with him and while Harry is mindlessly running around the flat, gathering together the paperwork he’d thrown aimlessly around the night before, he makes him tea in a thermo cup (green with jasmine, a spoonful of honey or English Breakfast on days Harry’s exceptionally sleepy and petulant) to go and wishes him a nice day before crawling back into his toasty warm bed and snoozing for another couple of hours, sated and silently purring underneath the pile of blankets.

When Louis makes dinner, slowly but surely advancing up from his egg dishes (fried eggs, fried eggs on toast, fried eggs without toast, fried eggs with warm beans, fried eggs with bacon, etcetera) to easier salads and even some oven-cooked salmon, a little burnt, but delicious nonetheless, he doesn’t escape to his room prompt ten minutes before he knows Harry’s to be expected home. He stays right there, in the kitchen, greets Harry with a blissful flick of his tail and asks about his day before they sit together behind the dining table and eat their supper with nice, light and flowing conversation. Harry always offers to do the dishes, because Louis cooked and he’s improving, Louis really is.

On another quiet Friday in, when Harry’s decided to skip the usual supper at the local pub with his close friend Zayn and his lovely little hybrid, Niall, he and Louis are both huddled up on the sofa, a massive woollen blanket thrown over their legs, a romantic comedy of sorts playing on the telly. At some point, Louis gets his tail stuck in an uncomfortable position and he brings it over his head, from one side to another, to rest right between them. Inadvertently, he brushes the tip of his tail over Harry’s hand that’s resting in his lap and Harry visibly twitches at the soft touch of the fur against his fingers.

It’s something they haven’t discussed before and something that Harry finds Louis keeping very much to himself, very private, which he honours to the farthest extent. Somehow it’s been forgotten in the society that even though ears and tails are very inherent to hybrids, obviously, they’re still a part of their body and everyone is entitled to privacy regarding their own flesh and bones. Harry knows from general knowledge, and particularly from little blonde Niall, that hybrids usually prefer not to have their tails tugged on, not even touched without their consent, so naturally, he twitches and swiftly snaps his hand away.

Louis notices, of course he does, and decides to poke Harry in the face with the tip of his tail. It’s furry, the hairs fuzzy and baby soft at the top, and it tickles Harry, so it’s only natural when Louis bursts out laughing at Harry’s reaction, a scrunched up face with big eyes comparable to a startled frog.

It’s also the first time Harry’s ever seen or heard Louis _laugh_ out loud like this and he’s fairly sure it’s just about the most adorable thing he’s ever seen or heard anyone do. That also includes giving little good-smelling babies belly rubs and blowing raspberries against their velvet-soft flesh or hugging small dogs, little good-smelling frisky pups, close to him.

Harry also vows to himself that he’ll do anything to make Louis giggle at least once a day from now on.

Twice, if he’s lucky and turns up his funny meter.

“You can touch it, you know,” Louis flicks his tail to rest on Harry’s lap, “I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” Harry’s baffled, incredulous.

It’s an immense step towards mutual trust, confidence within each other, and so far, Harry hasn’t been sure if they’re already at that crossing point, but it seems that they are and it feels lovely.

It feels so very lovely and there is unexplainable warmth curling up in the pit of his belly, it’s the feeling of coming home after a long day to rest your head on your favourite pillow, the feeling of having a fresh cuppa from your favourite mug after the loveliest, nicest nap, the feeling of warm summer mornings and the sun peeking out from the fluffy cloud tufts after they’ve been hidden behind the rain for so long, too long.

Louis nods and nudges Harry again with his tail, trying to wiggle the tip of it into Harry’s ear to catch his attention and Harry’s genuinely shocked, but in the best of ways, over Louis’ sudden playfulness. He doesn’t mind, though, of course he doesn’t, and as he strokes over the tail gingerly, feeling the silky soft hairs underneath his fingertips and eventually petting, fondling it softly, he can feel Louis cuddling up to his side, hesitant at first, but still sure of his own intentions.

Louis finally, right before the very end of the movie, ends up falling asleep with his head rested against Harry’s shoulder, purring very softly and very quietly as Harry’s deft fingers keep on soothing over his tail. Harry’s quite sure his own heart is about to beat out of his chest.

It feels like fireworks on a New Year’s Eve, crossettes and falling leaves trickling down from the night sky. It feels like everything he’s ever wanted is right there, right between his arms.

 

 

The thing with Zayn and Niall is that they’re, well, they’re a couple.

The story goes something like this: from a friend of a friend, Zayn heard of a hybrid who was never exactly wronged, taken advantage of or otherwise abused, a fairly successful life by the average hybrid standards in a world of oppression and exploitation, but who was quite literally homeless due to a series of unfortunate events. Being a good person at heart and with a room to spare in his small flat, he offered to help a lad out, at least until he’d be able to get back on his feet and fend for himself as best as he could.

The friend of a friend introduced them and not less than a day later, Niall had occupied the second room Zayn had before used mainly for storing and creating his art, a side interest and another mean of expressing himself and distracting his befuddled brain from the demanding day job he held during weekdays.

However, there was something about Niall that kept Zayn intrigued and something about Zayn that had Niall sleeping restlessly, tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning each night before he gathered up every tiniest bit of courage he had and kissed Zayn on a foggy spring morning right before Zayn was about to dash out of the door. Zayn had been standing there, in the kitchen, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion and sleepiness and a little drop of milk clung to his beard from his milk-and-cookies-for-breakfast habit and Niall’s heart had hurt with the realization of how hard and fast he’d already fallen.

The rest, like they say, is history.

Zayn and Niall fit well and even though there are mean looks, snide remarks and unnecessary opinions thrown at them at the most inconvenient of times, they never really let the commentary get to them. Neither of them believes their love is for anyone else to judge; it’s their own little safe haven they’ve created.

They’ve made themselves a home inside each other, full of respect and admiration, trust and confidence in each other. Nose kisses in the morning, lunch and before bed, quiet whispers and promises to each other of forever and the ability to communicate without any words, because they just _know_ – and Zayn couldn’t care less that the love of his life is a hybrid.

Zayn is also of great help when Harry shows up on his doorstep one night in late February, a bottle of cheap Jose Cuervo in one hand and a little bag of limes in the other. They end up sitting on the floor of Zayn’s living room, a little bowl of cut-up citrus wedges, a saltshaker and two abandoned shot glasses between them, having decided that straight from the bottle is a bit classier than using proper plasticware. They’re not the most posh, most proper men either of them know, so it’s probably alright, Harry thinks as he takes another swig of the tequila, chases it down with lime and salt, and rests his head back against the sofa.

“How do you call it when you want to gather up someone in your arms and protect them from all the harm in the world?” Harry slurs as he hands the bottle back to Zayn. It’s almost empty, but Harry isn’t quite sure if the inexpensive alcohol has served its original purpose of calming down his brain, because even after drinking half of it straight, his mind is still clouded with Louis, some more Louis and of course, Louis – and it’s not helping.

The alcohol is not serving him well; it’s confusing and discouraging Harry even further and he’s got a hurricane swirling inside of him.

“Darn sure that’s called love, mate… or motherhood,” replies Zayn dryly before taking a swig of his own. His eyes are sparkling and curious and Harry knows better than to lie, because if there is someone who knows, who always just _knows_ Harry, from his deepest darkest secrets to the heart he ever so often wears on his sleeve, but suavely manages to ignore and disregard all of his own wants and needs in lieu of pleasing everyone else, the person who comprehends the real Harry, is Zayn.

Harry lets out a long sigh, his heart has a vice-like grip on his lungs because breathing hurts, the realization hurts and quite soon, his head is going to hurt from the alcohol and the overthinking it’s doing. It’s easy to let yourself feel, to succumb to your own emotions and let them drag you deep, to get lost inside your own head with no exit sign in sight, no light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.  

“I don’t think he’s ready for anyone to love him just yet,” Harry replies sadly, voice broken and dejected, thumbing over the green peel of a lime wedge as a wretched, useless way of distracting himself, “there’s only so much I can give him before it becomes too much, you know?”

“Don’t you think love is the only thing that’s going to save him?”

And if that doesn’t feel like a smack to the stomach, straight into the belly with a curled-up fist, sharp and severe. It feels like having your world turned upside down, because this something that you’ve always believed in, this something gets thrown back into your face and undermined in the worst of ways.

And if that, really, isn’t the answer to everything. Love is all you need and all that.

Naturally, Zayn continues, pensive and sort of brooding. It reminds Zayn of the hesitance he’d had towards Niall at the very beginning of their relationship, when Niall had his nose pressed tight into his neck, soft breath cascading over Zayn’s cold skin in warm puffs of breath, just like the sun kisses one’s skin on the hottest summer days, but Zayn had still been hesitant, petrified. He had Niall, but what if he wasn’t enough, what if he couldn’t give Niall nothing more besides a house and a bed, what if the only thing Zayn could hive him was himself and nothing more – what if that wouldn’t be enough?

So he knows, of course he knows the violent, intense battle between the heart and the head that’s blowing up a storm inside of Harry, dark clouds taking over and ready to create a raging tempest, thunder roaring and lightning flashing.

“I think you’re his best chance at a normal life,” says Zayn, “and I’m sure you don’t need me telling you how much he’s worthy of one. So go do it.”

Harry exhales out a shaky breath, slowly presses himself up from the floor and brushes off the bum of his jeans. He brings his hands to his face, rubbing and pressing into his eyes, trying to make sense of what’s happening and what’s about to happen, what decisions he should make and when exactly he should make them.

“Care to get me a car?”

Zayn nods and opens the Über app on his phone while Harry’s cleaning the floor up, getting rid of the used lime wedges and refrigerating the rest of fruit, pouring out the last drops of warm golden tequila into the chrome sink of Zayn’s kitchen, because they despise cheap liquor anyway, and putting the salt shaker back to it’s place on the hefty spice rack, right between the rose pepper and thyme.

“You’ll let me know how it goes, right?”

Harry chuckles dryly. “Not even sure anything’s about to go down, but I’ll let you know, yeah. Thanks for the evening, man,” he takes a step closer and lets Zayn envelop him in a tight hug. He smells like stale cigarette smoke, distinctive cologne of something musky, spicy and very expensive and a little bit like home. Zayn’s always been home, warm and inviting, Harry’s refuge from the stormy sea, anchoring him down when there’s no one else left to bother, to care, to ask the questions Harry knows he needs to hear and find the answers to.

The ride back home’s quiet, contemplative, Harry is so lost in his own thoughts, his own befuddled mind, that he barely has the mind to ask the driver not to miss his house with the way he’s speeding through snowy London and past the white townhouses of Belgravia that admittedly all look a tad bit too similar with their white exteriors and fancy ironwork.

The fresh snow crunches underneath the soles of his boots and for two in the morning, the lock clicks a bit too loudly under the pressure of his key, he’s a bit too stumbling and un-coordinated and a bit too worried that he’s going to wake Louis up. Destroying and disturbing his precious sleep, however, is the last thing Harry wants to do just because it seemed like a great idea, at some point in the evening, to throw down a full bottle of tequila on a random Wednesday night and have it conclude with him floundering about in his own house like a new-born baby fawn.

Louis is not hidden away in his room, however, is what Harry realizes when he sees the light coming from the living room and the faint sound of someone speaking on the telly. He sneaks his way into the resting area and finds Louis curled up on the sofa, eyes closed peacefully, face soft and pliant as he sleeps, void of all emotions, and puffing out long, calm breaths, mouth the slightest bit open and the sharp tips of his white canines peeking out. Louis has bundled himself into a warm cocoon, all burritoed up in the dark green woollen throw blanket that’s always laying around somewhere in the lounge and Harry thinks he looks like an angel, like a tiny feline angel with a soft tail and a bit devilish tendency to whack him on his head almost daily.

Harry feels his heart constrict painfully, it’s a bit sweet and a lot bitter, because Louis looks so tiny, so petite in the way everything that’s surrounding him is fluffy and oversized and envelops him in a warm cuddle of sorts and he looks so painfully serene that Harry almost never wants to wake him up. He wants Louis this content, peaceful at all times.

Having sobered up considerably with having faced the resting hybrid, _his_ sleepy hybrid, Harry kicks his tan boots, all sleek and expensive calf leather, to a random corner in the hallway, slides off his overcoat to hang it up on the tiny knobs that are skirting the wall of the foyer, every one but a single button on the end carrying his own vast selection of coats, parkas, trenches. As of December, he has Louis’ clothes scattered along, mixed with his own, and that warms his belly more than he’s willing to admit.

He walks up to the sofa and snatches the remote control from the coffee table, the mahogany surface is scattered with little purple wrappers of Cadbury Eclairs and there are a few empty teacups with the tea bags dried out and stuck on the bottom, quietly dying and decaying in a small puddle of cold milk.

Harry realizes he finds it incredibly endearing how Louis never really wants to go without a cup of English Breakfast at an arms length, but he also never wants to use the same mug right away again, because “variety reasons”. Each day Louis ends up using a little collection of different cups, some completely random and some that he’s by now deemed as his definite favourites. Then, at the end of the evening, he gathers them all up in his hands by holding them by their ears and softly scuffles to the kitchen to wash them all at once.

Flicking the telly off, the living room is left in a dim light, some streetlamps flickering golden bits of lightening onto the floor and over Louis’ face and he looks more loveable than Harry thinks he can handle. The alcohol in his veins, the slight buzz of the tequila keeps him electrified when Harry softly, quietly crouches down and slips his arms underneath Louis’ body to pick him up and carry upstairs to his room and set him down on his bed, right between the soft blankets and pillows where Harry thinks he belongs the most.

He looks so peaceful and content, barely even moves or twitches when Harry tenderly covers him in blankets, tucking in his toes and his tail and pressing a kiss to his forehead before he leaves the room and closes the door behind him, leaving the tiniest crack for he knows that even though Louis loves, practically thrives on the privacy he has now, he never really wants to be entirely closed off and hidden away.

Harry, however, he’s going to ignore how his heart is about to beat out of his own chest, how there’s something fiery hot running through his body that’s not your average fever, how his whole being is burning up with the want and _need_ to care for this boy that wasn’t even supposed to end up being such an important part of his life, or even a part of his life at all. He doesn’t know how, or even _if_ he should do anything, if he should tell Louis he wants to cradle him up in his arms and protect him from all the wicked in the world and love him the way he’s supposed to be loved, how he _deserves_ to be loved.

He’s also going to pointedly ignore how softly snoozing Louis, ears resting calmly on top of his head and tail curled up right under his throat, is wearing _his_ sweater. A bright lavender mix of cotton and the tiniest bit of alpaca wool, his softest and most favourite jumper that he keeps in the cupboard next to his bed and when he goes back to his room check on it, the usually neatly tidied drawer is a bit messed up.

Sort of like someone tried to find something and after having succeeded, they threw everything randomly in and staggered off with the desired item in tow. Harry sighs softly, heart so fond it hurts, and starts tidying everything up, folding all his sweaters up neatly, prim and proper, stacking them according to colour.

Not a big deal, innit.

 

 

The days pass slowly and Harry finds himself taking most of his work home with him, spending less and less time in the office until he finally drops by every other day for an hour or two to see how everything’s holding up, if everyone’s doing well, if there’s enough bloody tea and biscuits to keep all his employees caffeinated and motivated and takes home the paperwork for the next following days. He can go through his contracts, case studies and bookkeeping anywhere with a decent Internet access and a laptop, so even though he has the full ownership of the loveliest penthouse office with the finest view in the buzzing financial heart of Canary Wharf, he much more prefers setting up his little home workplace behind the high bar in his kitchen with Louis scuttling about the house and preparing him copious amounts of tea.

It’s nice. Domestic, even.

Harry feels now that Louis is slowly peeling off his layers and tearing down his walls, finally showing Harry his real heart and real face, sometimes tells him about his hopes and dreams and what’s going on in his mind as he sits at the windowsill, nibbles on crackers and watches the cars pass by for hours, tail lazily flicking back and forth, it’s like a real home.

Harry had always appreciated his house, his _home_ , but with Louis in it, it’s better. It feels a bit more real, a bit more authentic as Louis keeps on leaving traces of himself in every room, every surface, and it feels a lot less like just a nice townhouse that Harry’s furnished to his own taste.

They’re both getting better at living together, approving of each other, and Harry can see less and less apprehension and hesitation in Louis’ eyes each morning as Louis stumbles into the kitchen, bleary and sleepy soft as he rubs over his face with the sweater paws he’s got his fingers hidden in. He’s more trusting, more willing to speak up and ask for things he wants, things he needs.

It’s been a slow start, but a start nonetheless and each tiny step a massive progress, from Louis asking Harry not to prepare him any peppermint tea, after having realized he despises the taste, to Louis asking Harry if they could drop by the nearest Sainsbury’s to get some groceries. Together, Louis slinging his pinky through Harry’s for reassurance.

Louis is learning the things he loves and hates, mildly minds and completely despises. He loves milk chocolate covered digestives with his morning tea and long bubbling baths with colourful foam tips in the warm water before bed, but he hates having his tail matted and uncombed as much as he hates having to wake up from his pleasant slumbers, curled up against Harry’s warm side with his small feet and tiny toes wrapped inside a massive blanket. Louis slightly minds having honey in his tea, even though Harry sometimes insists it’s good for him, but he despises the taste of raw white sugar, despite Harry trying to feed him anything full of carbohydrates to have him put on at least a few healthy kilos more.

He’s learning to be his own person with the way Harry’s given him a chance to find the real Louis, not the one that’s been force-fed hatred, find the truth opposed to the lies he’s learned to believe about himself, his life. Louis has grown to despise certain parts of his body less and less with every passing day and at some days, he even appreciates the way Harry smiles at him when he finds his ears unintentionally twitching to catch some particular sounds and sometimes, he light-heartedly jabs Harry with his tail or tries to stick it in his ear to catch his attention when he decides Harry’s not giving him enough of it.

It’s another fuzzy, hazy morning in with the weather overcast, grey and gloomy, a bit cold with the chill seeping into ones bones and clinging tight, never letting go. It’s the sort of day where everyone’s energy levels are low, close to critical, and the best idea for anyone is to curl up somewhere warm and watch countless hours of rubbish telly.

It’s also the day that everything changes.

Harry’s in the kitchen, cracking some eggs into a large bowl and whipping them fluffy, sprinkling them over with a dash of sea salt and rosemary as they crackle on the heated pan. The kitchen smells of herbs, ripe cherry tomatoes and freshly squeezed orange juice that Harry pours into a highball filled with frosty ice cubes, placing the glass to where Louis has his seat set, a steaming mug of tea already waiting for him, well-prepared and entirely sugarless.

Everything’s wonderful, mellow, slow-paced and tranquil as Harry flips the eggs and hums a quiet, random tune to himself, right up until he hears a loud crash of glass, metal, more glass and maybe something else, followed with a blood-curling scream, high-pitched and in obvious agony.

Harry flips the pan off the stove in a super-human speed, tepid oil spattering all over the cooktop in shining beads similar to raindrops, kicks the spatula away and doesn’t bother to check where it lands. He takes off quickly, runs to the bathroom where he last spotted Louis and finds him standing there, right in the middle and surrounded by thousands of tiny shards, glistening silver against the fluorescent light. The mirror’s crashed down from the wall and Harry thinks that he himself might want to weep just from the look on Louis’ face – he’s crying, thick tears running down from the bright blues of his eyes, over his light pink cheeks, tail tucked between his legs as tightly as it goes, ears flat against his head and turned back, sobs and shivers his whole body as he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Hey,” Harry whispers soothingly, invitingly, attempting to shake Louis out of his blind panic, “come here, love.”

He extends a hand to Louis, but Louis has glass shards stuck between his toes and he’s too afraid, too petrified to do anything besides stand still with and let the tears flow freely. He’s like a stone statue, gorgeous cold marble of silvery hue suspended in time.

Harry takes another step forward, manoeuvring away from the thickest pieces of glass and gathering the shivering boy up in his arms, letting him cling to his body as tight as a baby koala would, supporting his body weight by holding onto his bum.

It’s a very lovely bum, supple and firm, but Harry’s never going to admit that out loud. Ever. Or at least not in this situation.

Harry carries Louis back to the kitchen, holding him close and taking steady steps towards the counter he ends up setting him on. He leaves the half-cooked food be and goes to his bedroom for a moment to retrieve the first aid kit he keeps hidden away in his wardrobe. Upon returning, he leans himself against the cupboard and opens the box, picking out a pair of sharp tweezers, a spray bottle of antiseptic and a roll of sterilized gauze bandage, and picks one of Louis’ feet up from where they’re dangling against the furniture, setting it on his lap.

“When I was younger,” Louis hiccups as he’s trying to hold back the soft mewls of pain his body desperately wants to let out, have them consume him and throw every ounce of pain out in a fresh set of tears and high-pitched whines, “I was sold to this absolute twat. Never used me for anything more than had me lay down on the floor in front of him, stuck his muddy shoes right there on m’ back, used me as a darned leg rest and for the entire time, he kept telling me about how useless I am. Told me if he found me dead, wouldn’t even throw the bits for his dogs to feed on. Every day when he came home, he’d do that. One day, I was getting a glass of water. He got home early, startled me, I dropped the glass. He was so angry, completely livid. Forced me to stand on the broken pieces of glass until my feet were bleeding, said it was a right punishment for me for breaking his things while he’s providing me with a good life, better than the streets would be.”

Harry feels bile rising up in his throat, but keeps his face straight and continues picking out the sharp shards from the soft soles of Louis’ feet. Sprays the antiseptic over his skin, swallows down the painful lump that’s nestled itself in his throat. He’s not going to cry, but he might want to.

“After that, he sold me. Said he didn’t need a hybrid who fucked everything up, and he’s right, isn’t he? Why would you want anyone who’s destroying your house?” Louis begins rambling, voice shallow and shaky and whimpering, “you’ve given me everything, a nice home and good food, like I can actually eat whenever I’m hungry, warm clothes and my own room that’s not a literal trashcan and all I’ve ever dreamed of having and there I go, demolishing your bathroom. Like I already don’t have a lifetime of bad luck served up for me, could have done without the additional seven years, you know.”

It feels like a sharp knife, stabbed straight into the gut, piercing through the flesh and tissue, picking tersely against the bone. It’s everything about Louis that Harry doesn’t want to hear, would love to tuck everything bad away and keep him close to his heart, have him make a home inside of it and erase all the bad that’s ever done to him, but it’s everything Harry can’t do and he can’t break down, he can’t let Louis see it’s not only killing him, but Harry, too.

Harry finishes with Louis’ left foot, lathers a thick layer of zinc oxide paste over it and wraps it up in heavy white gauze, covering even the tiniest of scratches with the bandage, and sets it softly back to the edge of the counter where his other leg is dangling from. He picks up his other foot and sets to work, going over the same movements of picking out the glass bits with the tweezers, spraying all the cuts and bruises with Cetrimide and wrapping another roll of gauze over it.

Louis has little mummy feet and if the situation weren’t a bit tragic and a lot painful and Harry would laugh and point out how silly, how adorable he looks with wrapped-up little toes if they both weren’t feeling like a bunch of extremely soul-depraved and filthy thirsty dementors had entered the house through the back door and sucked all of the verve, delight and energy out of both of them.

It’s all very miserable, really, but they’ve both been brave, putting on their best faces – Louis out of fear to upset Harry even further, even though Harry’s the farthest from being offended in the first place, although Louis does not know that, and Harry out of fear Louis that would think he’s irritated, disappointed.

All in all, they’re both failing quite exquisitely.

“Are you mad?” Louis whispers, trails of dried out tears stuck on the pinks of his hollow cheeks, eyes shining in the warm morning light that bathes the kitchen golden. Harry’s wrapping up his other foot, the touch of his fingers soft and reassuring against Louis’ skin. He’s trying to convey everything he’s afraid to say with his touch, but Louis is still there, he’s still shivering and even in his pain and despondency, he’s the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen.

He wants to kiss him so bad. Kiss away all of his terrors and nightmares, pain and relinquishment. Kiss him until all he can feel is love and affection, smothering him in the best of ways like a fluffy, pink blanket of security and trust and promise for a better tomorrow, for a better life.

Harry takes a bold step forward and doesn’t let his gaze waver from Louis, piercing through and trying to find his way in. Louis seems a little bit frightened, mostly just jumbled with the thoughts running around his head, because Harry’s yet to speak a word and even though they’ve been doing great – well, even – and at this point they’ve become friends, _good_ friends and Louis trusts Harry more than anyone he’s ever trusted in his life, which is to say something, because he’s never trusted _anyone_ , he’s afraid he’s gone and done fucked up now.

Louis is even quite prepared for a sharp smack on the cheek, maybe even a well-prepared sucker punch straight into his tummy, because even though he’s considering Harry as his friend at this point – also, saying something, because he’s never, ever really had anyone in his life he’d call a _friend,_ a true person, _his person_ , someone he could count on and trust, blindly and in good faith.

He doesn’t know how Harry could react, because Louis knows for sure – if it were his house, he would particularly mind anyone going around and swinging glassware in.

Much to Louis’ surprise, Harry takes another step forward and wraps his arms around Louis, pulls him into a tight, firm embrace. Louis fits well against Harry’s lithe body, strong lean muscles pressed close to Louis’ shivering form and he’s so, so relieved that he lets out a quiet sob, a shy high-pitched whine and there are fresh tears pouring from his eyes, big clumps of teardrops sticking to his eyelashes like dew in the morning.

Louis can’t remember the last time he felt this protected, this relieved over something, and there are so many emotions threatening to pour out of him, so close to breaking the dam and letting everything flow free, uninhibited.

He’s there, in Harry’s pristine kitchen that always smells of fresh buttery bread, Italian herbs and sugary almonds, wrapped tight in Harry’s arms and there’s no place on Earth where he’d ever rather want to be, Louis decides. Harry’s warm and solid against him, anchoring him down and doesn’t let Louis’ own cruel, spiteful words laced with distaste and malice that are shouting inside his own head, at the top of their proverbial lungs, get to him.

After a minute or five or maybe fifteen, Harry having smoothed reassuringly over Louis’ back with his hand the whole time, Louis sniffles, but does not move his head from Harry’s shoulder. His nose brushes against the side of Harry’s neck and he smells so good, feels so nice and warm against the body that’s known only cold for too long. When Harry feels Louis’ breaths calming down, not coming out as hot, short puffs against his own skin, but rather long, calculated breaths in and then out, in and then out again, slowly and steadily, he untangles his arms and uses his index fingers to have Louis raise his head up from where it’s burrowed in the softness of his own sweater.

Harry slides his palms softly around the back of Louis’ neck, tangling them together and pulling Louis nearer, having him rest his forehead against his own. They’re close, so close that Harry can almost make out each speck of shimmering gold that’s hidden inside the bright blues of Louis’ eyes, can count each dark lash that casts shadows over the tops of cheekbones in the morning sunshine so elegantly, can see every stroke of emotion that’s been painted over Louis’ face that he so desperately tries to hide from Harry, but doesn’t always quite succeed.

“I promise,” Harry whispers, his lips so close to almost brush against Louis’ own, “that I’m going to protect you from the world, from yourself and from everything else that ever frightens you. And you’ll always have a home here, with me, even if you end up demolishing every single piece of furniture. It’s just things, I don’t care.”

Louis tries to hide the small smile that’s about to break out on his face, through watery eyes and a painful heart, he does end up breathing a soft giggle into Harry’s face and Harry thumbs away the tears that emerge again. It’s a very teary morning, Louis can admit, but for the first time in ages, there’s laughter accompanying the tears and with the way Harry’s still there, pressed tight against him and laughing with him, he can swallow his pride, bury it somewhere deep and live in the moment, embrace the way he’s being held and cared for and not worry about what’s going to happen a minute, a day, a week from now.

It’s going to be fine, he’s going to be fine. All’s well that ends well, and all of that.

They spend the day lounging about, after having had the longest breakfast turned into brunch, having eggs with freshly baked focaccia, fruit cubes with vanilla yoghurt and maybe a few dozen chocolate biscuits too many, drinking three cups of tea instead of the usual one and whispering sweet nothings and utter rubbish to each other, Harry ends up flicking Louis’ nose for more than once and Louis repeatedly jabs Harry with his tail, curls it around Harry’s neck and slides it over his strong jawline.

For the longest time, Louis has been denying himself of even the smallest of things that could bring him joy, make him happy, blissful, because what’s the point? With the way he’s never really known what the next day brings, he tries to live more in the moment and less in the future. He hasn’t let himself feel anything for anyone and of course, he hasn’t ever even been given a chance – someone abusive replaced with someone even more abusive, aggressive and offending rarely leaves any room for romance and butterflies fluttering around in his tummy, no erratic heartbeats and being tongue-tied over the simplest of words in the fear of embarrassing himself.

Harry, however, is a whole another deal, from the way Louis is constantly petrified that his hair looks dumb, that his ears twitch too much on their own accord and it makes him look silly and slightly epileptic, that sometimes his tail gets too overexcited with embodying all of his emotions, that most of the times he looks like an inane, overgrown cat boy and someone, _something_ Harry could never find appealing. His heart sometimes beats too loud, like it’s trying to make its way out of the cavity of his chest, and his hands sometimes shake too hard that he’s spilling little drops of tea over the rim of his cup, but Harry with his chocolate curls, bright eyes and golden heart keeps on being his own personal brand of catnip.

So generally speaking, he’s enjoying himself, relishing and taking delight in the little moments he has with Harry that feel a bit more significant, more substantial than all of the rest. Louis loves the playful banter he has with Harry and he adores the way he sometimes feels Harry’s gaze on him for longer than considered just friendly, platonic. There are the little snippets of himself that Harry keeps giving to Louis, subconsciously mostly, that Louis finds himself appreciating and reciprocating and just like Harry, not always on conscious purpose.

It’s the way Harry covers them with the same blanket while cuddled up on the sofa, even though there’s plenty more on the armchair next to the window, piled high with woollen throws and fleece quilts in various shades of black and moss green, and Louis instinctually lets himself be coddled into his side, sometimes, more often than not, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder as he flicks through the main menu of some DVD of a movie he insists on Louis seeing.

It’s also the way how Louis slides a few fingers in Harry’s palm when they’re out for groceries, too frightened and shy to take his whole hand, but in need of some reassurance anyway, because even though Harry’s never cruel, never unpleasant towards him, the rest of the world still regards him a hybrid that isn’t worth shit. A little encouragement is pleasant and much welcomed.

It’s that and all the other little things that make Louis feel special, cared for, and give him the tiniest hints as to what more there could be if Louis had the courage, the right bravery inside him to take a step forward, a leap into the unknown and trust his heart and his intuition with everything he has.

In the evening, after a long hot shower, steamy and pleasantly burning, Louis pulls on a pair of pants and a loose-fitting dark shirt he usually prefers to sleep in, the cotton thin and worn-out already. He takes exquisite attention and detail in drying off his tail and fluffing it back up from its matted, damp state and instead of pattering into his own room, diving between his silky sheets and snuggling into the perfectly feathered pillows, he walks a door ahead and turns left, right to where Harry sleeps.

The door is not closed – Harry never closes it, neither does Louis – so Louis takes a tentative step forwards and peeks his nose in, keeping himself at a safe distance in case he’s been reading Harry and his every affectionate action towards Louis incredibly wrong and he needs to make a quick exit, probably to escape back to his room and squirm in shame for a year or two until he has the bravery to face Harry again.

Harry’s in his bed, bare and brow furrowed as he’s flicking through Esquire, glossy pages rustling beneath his fingertips. At the sight of Louis peering about, he sets the magazine on the end table right next to his bed and motions Louis to come in. Harry looks sleepy-soft and warm, curls mussed up around his head and he looks so kind, so enticing and so lovely Louis decides it’s pretty much a now or never situation he’s found himself in.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Harry asks as he scoots over and makes some room for Louis under the fluffy duvet. Louis slides his body in, tucking his tail safely between the both of them and curls up at Harry’s side. He’s is even warmer than he looks, skin soft like silky velvet, smelling of expensive perfume, fresh linen and something sugary sweet, so quintessentially _Harry._

Louis takes a deep breath in, lets it fill his lungs and tickle his senses, and breathes out a loud purr that makes Harry chuckle, laughter reverberating through his body.

“I’m sorry about today,” Louis whispers, nosing against Harry’s collarbone, sharp against the pale soft skin stretched taut over it. Louis tries his hardest to resist giving it a lick, sliding his tongue over, hot and wet.

“Hey,” Harry slides two fingers under Louis’ chin and gently urges him to look up at him, “told you, ‘s okay. As long as you’re well.”

Louis drops his face back to Harry’s shoulder, rubbing at it affectionately, nudging with the tip of his nose. His heart feels a bit too big for his chest, beating against his skin, constricting instead of edging on the blood flow. Harry’s right there, clutching him close, the touch of his fingertips electrifying Louis’ skin, dancing over his spine and it’s so hard to breathe because Louis wants, he wants _so_ bad.

It feels a bit like deciding whether to take the leap over the chasm, knowing the prize on the other side, knowing the worth and the weight of it, but having to decide whether it’s worth the risk of crossing over the dark abyss, having to deal with the suspense and the possibility of everything crashing down like a house of cards. And you know that everything could blow up right there, right in your face, into a thousand little bits that hurt like shrapnel pieces, but sometimes it’s worth it, the blood and the tears and the pain and the sweat that comes with taking risks that feel larger than life, but could win you the whole universe.

Louis makes his decision as he feels Harry drop a kiss into his hair, pull him closer to his side and tighten his arm around Louis’ narrow waist, fingers digging into the soft skin, pressing in firm, but light enough not to leave any bruises, unwanted marks of blue and purple against his tender skin.

He softly pries Harry’s arms away from his body, holds him by the wrists with his little fingers, hands unsteady and shaking as he shuffles himself to straddle Harry, knees bracketed tight against his narrow hips as he’s trying to steady his body, shaken up and wrecked with tiny little tremors, panic settling tight in his tummy and cursing through his every vein and capillary.

It feels a bit like his whole future, the entire course of his life from the next moment is being decided right then, right there, in Harry’s bedroom as they’re both cuddled up under Harry’s thick down blanket, warm skin touching and shaky breaths exhaled into the air between them. Harry has Louis’ heart in his hands, it feels, right between his fingertips and it’s his decision to either push Louis off, shove him down and crush it into the littlest bits and pieces, bloody and broken, or want it back as much as Louis does and give them both a chance for something new, exciting, exquisite.

With impeccable curiosity, Harry lets Louis shift himself on his lap until he’s perfectly comfortable, resting the weight of his upper body securely against Harry’s chest.

Again, he’s so close that Harry can see every single little golden freckle and every tiny pore on Louis’ face – it’s unexplainable, really, how wildly everything starts turning in Harry’s stomach in correlation with how much closer Louis gets. So, Louis guides Harry’s arms gently to rest on his waist and Harry understands the motion Louis expects, answers him by wrapping his large palms around Louis’ hipbones and squeezing gently, relishing in the way the warm skin gives in underneath his touch and elicits a shy, almost unnoticed gasp out of Louis.

Louis slides his palms up Harry’s neck, thumbing over the thick jugular pulsing underneath his hot skin, pulse a little bit faster and higher than necessary for late-night canoodling under the covers, Louis thinks, up until his fingers are settled somewhere behind his ears, pushed into and holding onto the soft curls that frame Harry’s face. They’re both breathing heavily, air thick with electric tension, sparks threatening to shoot out and crackle any moment. Harry still isn’t pushing him away, which Louis takes as a good sign, a green light that gives him permission to move on, keep going with his actions and do the one thing he’s been wanting for a few weeks now.

So, he closes his eyes, holds onto Harry’s face a bit tighter and leans in. Presses his lips against Harry’s and prays to God he isn’t doing the wrong thing, that he isn’t destroying the one thing he has going for him for the first time in his life, that Harry wouldn’t throw him out of his lap and right back onto the streets without any further thought and ado, disregard him like a little sewer rat to fend on his own, once again.

Harry doesn’t. He hitches his breath in surprise, pulls Louis even closer to him, so close that even the thinnest sheet of paper couldn’t slide past between them with the way the way Harry has Louis so snug against his body, and responds to Louis, presses back against the lips that are so warm, so soft, so sugary sweet.

Thing is, it feels so incredibly _right_. Like it’s meant to be, even though there are not nearly enough scoffs, eye rolls and other means of displaying displease for Louis to use regarding the phrase “meant to be”.

Nothing’s ever meant to be, really, he wasn’t meant to be a hybrid, he wasn’t meant to be born into the society that’s predetermined to despise him, loathe him, degrade him on every given chance. He wasn’t meant to be taken in by Harry Styles and he wasn’t meant to be perched on his lap, have his shivering body held tight by Harry’s arms, anchoring him down, and have Harry kissing so gently, so lovingly, just as if he were made of the frailest, thinnest glass there is.

All in all, Louis believes it’s either a miracle or just a stroke of luck, he maybe wants to choke back a few tears with the way Harry’s making him feel like he’s important, like he’s cared for. Like he genuinely doesn’t ever want any harm for Louis, _ever_ , just like Harry promised him. And he doesn’t press Louis any further, that’s the thing – one could assume, from the sexual nature of most, if not all, hybrid relationships, that even a kiss initiated by a shy, despondent hybrid would have a sexual undertone, a hidden agenda written right there in between the lines, but there is none and Harry keeps on kissing him like there’s no one else he’d rather kiss, ever.

It’s a lovely feeling, Louis thinks.

Louis slides his tongue in Harry’s mouth, licking over the seam of his parched lips at first and then pressing its way inside. Harry’s lips are even more delicious than they look and most of the time, Harry’s lips look like he’s constantly nibbling on Maraschino cherries – bright pink and incredibly sweet. Harry reciprocates, kisses Louis until they’re both breathless and gasping for air, never parting for more than a few millimetres with their lips still barely touching, barely sticking against each other.

They kiss, languid and soft and slow, until Louis is lax and pliant in Harry’s arms, loose-limbed and softer than honey dipped in sunshine, the loveliest Harry has ever witnessed him and Harry’s sure his breathing and heartbeats will never, ever be the same again. Lips rubbed red, Louis whispers the quietest “thank you” against Harry’s lips before resting his head on Harry’s chest, eyes fluttering close at the briefest touch. He wraps the end of his tail around Harry’s wrist, covering the skin with soft fur, snuggles himself the closest and even before Harry has the chance to wish him a good night, tuck him in and press a kiss to his nose, Louis is fast asleep in his arms.

Before Harry succumbs to sleep, he lets himself lie there quietly for a bit, cradling Louis in his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, deep and soft, and faint sounds from the street, car horns and some people rustling about, the world hidden away behind the curtains. It’s him and Louis in his bed, tucked in tight together and Harry feels like he’s close to finishing a puzzle he didn’t know he was putting together in the first place. He ends up falling asleep with tingling lips and an unsteady heart, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 

 

The days eventually get longer as the spring is nearing and it seems as if the whole world is gently waking up from the long slumber of winter, movements slow and eyes bleak, bleary. Golden sunshine is an almost daily occurrence, painting the blue sky bright, melting away the remnants of muddy snow and coaxing little white snowdrops to peek their noses out from under the ground.

For the first time in Louis’ life, he feels a certain resemblance with spring, draws some parallels, revels in the way everything miserable and dark seems to melt away finally to make room for a better, brighter tomorrow.

There are better days and worse days. Days when he feels much, much better and the world seems conquerable, when he takes Harry by his hand and asks him to show him around London through the eyes of someone who doesn’t have to hide in alleyways, days when he feels like he doesn’t necessarily have to tuck away the essential parts of himself and doesn’t hide his tail and ears away.

Harry takes him on long walks through Notting Hill and buys him scones from the bakeries they pass by, kisses him on the other side of the Greenwich meridian and watches as Louis awes over the ancient mummies in the British Museum. They have lunch on the street in Camden Market and Louis decides that pizza dripping with grease, pepperoni and cheese is his new most favourite thing in the world (besides snuggling in front of the telly and having Harry kiss him with his palms cupped over his cheeks).

There is a whole new world Louis has yet to see and learn about, even in his own hometown of London, and Harry is more than delighted to be the one showing him everything worth seeing.  It’s a privilege, really, rather than an annoying responsibility.

Sometimes, on office days, Harry brings Louis along and while he’s sorting out his paperwork and checking up on everyone’s doing and wellbeing, gathering up his workload to take home, Louis sits on the windowsill of his office, nibbles on biscuits and when he’s done with admiring the view over Canary Wharf and the Thames, he pointedly becomes everyone’s personal tea assistant in the employee lounge, so Harry’s actually not that surprised when there seems to be a collective tea break just because Louis decided so.

There’s not a single person in the office that has anything ruthless, anything impolite to say about Louis regarding his hybrid status (and if they do, they aren’t dense enough to say it out loud): everyone regards him as a dazzling little rascal they take delight in having around.

Undoubtedly, he’s a bit mischievous and a bit frisky, kittenish in the way he’s always playing around once he’s warmed up to everyone over the course of time and Louis realizes that everyone pointedly ignores his ears, tails and feline traits. Everyone knows, everyone _sees_ Harry is absolutely smitten with Louis and no one’s really that amazed, because they fit. They fit so bloody well and when the reception girl, bright-haired and dark-eyed Jade, tells Harry that she’s not once, over the span of the five years they’ve been working together, seen him so blissful, Harry can’t really shake the blush off his cheeks for the rest of the day.

There are also the bad days, the days when Louis is back at the starting point. He hides himself away in his room, throws all of his pillows and blankets into the shape of a tiny fort and barely comes out for days. Harry’s there to bring him tea, prepare him a sandwich or two, lets him survive only on biscuits for days and tries to coax him out of his fortress with the promise of pizza.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not and sometimes Harry has a lapful of tiny Louis, curled up and desolate, clinging to his neck and peppering his shirt with large clumps of crocodile tears. Sometimes he has a thousand questions, each one regarding his self worth and existence, why Harry’s still there with him and why, out of all the people Harry could be with, the most wanted bachelors and bachelorettes of London, Harry has chosen him, a silly hybrid to kiss and call his own. He sometimes feels like he’s stuck in an endless loop of a dream that keeps on playing him what he wants to see, but in just a nanosecond, it will all come crashing down to him, he’ll wake up and realize he’s still sleeping somewhere in the streets, hidden behind a rubbish bin.

Louis has kept all of his stuff and things in his room, still piled in their respective cupboards and on the shelves, but his favourite pillow and laptop charger have been permanently moved to Harry’s bedroom where he prefers to spend most of his nights, cuddled up snug as a bug, listening to Harry’s soft snores as his own personal lullaby and waking him up each morning with shy, gentle kisses. Inside his head, he’s not exactly where he wants to be yet, but the love, care and encouragement Harry provides him with, one thousand four hundred and forty minutes a day is what helps him on his way. He knows that even the ugly duckling didn’t turn into the beautiful, graceful white swan within a day.

That, and the constant cuddling he gets to remind him that he’s appreciated.

There are some parts of Louis, however, that Harry can’t always help with, some things he needs to sort out inside his head on his own, sift away what’s to keep and what’s to throw away. And even though Harry is there, arse over tits in love with Louis, all of the little things he says and does, watching him bloom from a withdrawn, self-loathing kitten to a beautiful, brazen creature that is fairly confident with his existence, even if just in the confines of own home, there are few things that Louis needs to find his own explanation and solution to.

One of those things is the fact that Louis keeps waking up, early in the mornings, with his cock rock hard more often than not, trapped beneath and tenting his briefs. Sometimes he tries his hardest to conceal it from Harry, turn his back towards him and pretend to snooze softly as Harry gets up for work and says goodbye with a single peck to his cheek and sometimes he just pointedly does not acknowledge it, but rarely makes any effort of hiding it from Harry.

As a hybrid, it’s been the whole principle of his life to serve for the sexual pleasure of someone else – hybrids don’t _get_ blowjobs, they give them and they get fucked, they get flogged and they get tied up, all without any consent or mutual agreement. Harry’s already definitely proved himself _not_ to be the classic example of a hybrid owner, the one who has his kitten as a doormat and a living version of a blow-up doll, complete with sound effects.

It probably takes Louis even more courage than the first time he kissed Harry, but one night in late March, he does end up climbing onto Harry’s lap, bracketing his legs so he’s straddling Harry’s thigh, leaning in to rest his forehead against Harry’s. Louis’ already a bit frazzled, a bit out of breath and in desperate need of release.

“Harry,” he whispers and nudges his hips forwards slowly, gently, so lightly Harry could have almost missed it.

“Yeah, kitten?” Harry utters back, savouring the warmth Louis is radiating, eyes blown wide and shimmering in the dim light of the living room. It’s like having his own little personal sun right there, sitting on his lap and never fading out, because he’s already a supernova, burning brighter than anyone else.

“I need you to…” Louis sucks a sharp breath in, gives his hips another interested twitch and trying to make Harry understands what he needs without actually saying it, keeping the words burning up inside of him. It’s a bit awkward, embarrassing, the way he needs to ask Harry to help him get off.

“Need me to what, love?”

“You know,” Louis murmurs, brow furrowing. His skin is getting clammy, a bit overheated and a little sweaty, but it makes a good glide as Harry slides his palms over his back, smoothing over the shining skin.

“If you want something, Louis, you need to ask for it.”

It’s not that Harry minds, of course he does not, but there is a fine line between Louis wanting things for himself and Louis wanting things because he thinks Harry might want them. Judging from the way he’s pressing his hard-on against Harry’s thigh, trying to rut against him inconspicuously, sort of discreetly, Harry does believe it’s for him, but he needs to say it. Verbalize it. Make it true for the both of them, because if there is one thing Harry doesn’t do regarding Louis, it’s assuming. Makes an ass out of a person, really.

“I need,” Louis hisses out as he feels his cock twitch from the pressure he’s been applying on it, “for you to sort me out. Please, Harry. Sort me out, do something.”

A sharp mewl is what shakes Harry out of his reverie of having a lapful of coquettish, needy Louis, grinding against him in his little briefs and looking up at him from underneath his lashes, trying to get his attention. His tail is swaying behind him languidly, he seems content and stuck inside a stupor of sorts, like a kitten resting in the only spot of warm sunshine, spreading themselves out and enjoying the heat.

And who is Harry to deny that, really?

He lets Louis grind against him for some more, each nudge of his hips careful and calculated, chafing right over the head of his cock through the soft fabric of his pants. Slowly and carefully, but with a steady hand, Harry slides his fingers underneath the waistband of his briefs and wraps his palm around Louis. He’s heavy and hot in his palm, a bit wet at the tip and Harry would _love_ nothing more than to wrap his lips around the head, kiss and lick at it until he has Louis reduced into a whimpering, boneless mess underneath him, brain completely disconnected from his body with just the headiest sensations running through him, but they’re not there. Not yet.

Harry gives him a few slow strokes before gradually building up the rhythm. Louis has changed his position into straddling him completely, burying his nose somewhere in Harry’s collarbone to hide his flaming cheeks, so completely overwhelmed by his own needs and the fear of Harry refusing him. By the time Harry has his fist quickly working over his cock, harder at the base and lighter around the tip, thumbing over the head and pressing mildly into his slit, Louis has given up all his self-control of not turning into something whimpering and humiliating and Harry is going to have the image of naked Louis writhing on his lap, hot and heavy, burned behind his eyelids for the rest of eternity.

It doesn’t take much longer for Louis to come, have the fiery tightness coil around in the pit of his belly, pleasure crashing over his body in waves he’s never even felt this way before, Harry right there nibbling lightly on his earlobe, whispering how good of a kitten he is, and finally pressing a kiss on his mouth right as Louis gives up, gives in and let his orgasm wreck through his body. He comes with a loud purr and Harry doesn’t think there’s anything that could make him harder than he already is.

It’s magnificent, really. Louis feels like he’s floating on a cloud, a nice fluffy tuft high in the sky, and Harry can barely hold himself from finishing in his own trousers, embarrassingly untouched. Louis looks so boneless, so satiated, so _pleased_ and pleasured that Harry barely has any heart to push him away from his lap, finding the hot little pants against his neck much more satisfying as he uses a random napkin to clean his hand and Louis off.

Later on, Harry has Louis tucked up under his chin in the bathtub, their bodies and bubbles nice and floating in the hot water. Louis feels good, the absolute best as Harry scrubs over his body with something that smells of pistachio and biscuits, gives him small kisses all over the parts of his body that aren’t submerged in the soapy water.

“I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Louis whispers, dancing his fingers over Harry’s arm that’s resting on the edge of the tub, trickling water and soft foam over it. He’s sleepy, sated and a bit introspective and Harry loves Louis like that, quiet and deep in thought, throwing Harry bits of what’s floating through his head. “And one day when I know how, I’m going to thank you for that, but right now I’m just going to kiss you a bit more. Alright?”

Harry chuckles, laughs a bit like his life hasn’t been turned around upside down in the best of ways, laughs like Louis thinks there is a chance that Harry doesn’t feel exactly the same.

“Alright, darling,” he says and pulls Louis into a deep kiss, sliding his soapy fingers into Louis’ hair and presses close.

It’s another new beginning for them, another new set of rules for them to memorize, new notes to play by. There will be days when Louis is intent, set on discovering his newfound sexuality that he’s encouraged to explore, that he’s allowed to even _have_ , days when Harry finds that Louis has crawled onto his own bed, door ajar and writhing down on the bedsheets, little peach arse bared in the cold air, golden sheen of sweat glistening all over his body, thrusting his hips back onto the linen with one hand in the pillows, clutching on for dear life, and the other one wrapped around his swollen prick, working over it furiously.

On the same days, Louis will snuggle his way into Harry’s bedroom, lick his way into Harry’s mouth and coax his hand down into Louis’ pants, have him kiss over the soft planes of his tummy, nose over his soft groin and Harry will convey so much trust, adoration and reverence into his touches that Louis lets Harry take him apart with soft kisses and wet licks of his tongue, right where it feels the best, the heavenliest.

There will also be the days when he feels embarrassed, where he doesn’t want to feel Harry’s hands on him and where he will be too shy, too fearful to touch Harry himself. They will kiss softly, the barest brushes of lips against each other, no tongue and nothing traditionally passionate, just trusting touches and reassurances. It will be alright, because if there is something that Harry has taught Louis, apart from how he can be his own person and how he can and will be loved, how his bodily features and DNA do not define how he should be treated, it’s that Louis is allowed to ask, he’s allowed to take and his opinion is valued, always.

There will come a time when Harry will go back to their parents, hand in hand, Louis having wrapped is tail around both of their wrists for encouragement and his parents will have the I-definitely-told-you-so looks on their faces, but it won’t matter because they’re family and family always forgives, or if not, the Styles-Twist household always does. There will come a time when Harry will have big cases of hybrid protection filed to his firm and Louis will be the one staying up with him for countless nights, offering him the input from a hybrid’s side and together they’ll work on cases, precedents that will change their rights all over the United Kingdom, only for the best.

There will come a time when they’re both the happiest they’ll have ever been. And that time will come much sooner than either of them dare to expect.


End file.
